


Day 31: Encasement

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [31]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Despair, Dubious Consent, Gender-neutral Reader, Intubation, Latex, Other, Restraints, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Chaos Breaker is a responsible owner who puts his toys away when he's done playing. Happy New Year~
Relationships: Chaos Breaker Dragon/Reader
Series: Kinktober 2020 [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	Day 31: Encasement

**Author's Note:**

> BIG WARNING FOR BIG DESPAIR ENDING (ie. If you're claustrophobic or something similar maybe just Don't Read This)
> 
> AS USUAL FOR CBD FICS PLEASE READ A) THE TAGS AND WARNINGS BECAUSE IT'S NOT PRETTY (Actually, this one isn't very Explicit at all but I am not really happy rating it anything less. Please also note I am abstaining from archive warnings once again, also the ending isn't very.... positive, but really if you were expecting a happy ending here then I don't know what to tell you. It might be a Good End depending how you feel about long-term encasement, and, uh, Despair lol) AND ALSO B) THE PREVIOUS FICS IN THE SERIES PLEASE IT'S A ~NARRATIVE~ (I've even put them into a series now to make the other parts easier to find. Please. It makes me so sad when the later parts get exponentially more hits than the start.)
> 
> Anyway, if anyone doesn't recognize him, the other character here is the G Guardian form of Cosmo Wreath. In this setting he became the de facto leader of Cray's Link Joker ""post-Messiah"", and... probably knew full well what was likely to happen if he extended the hand of friendship to CBD, but here he is anyway. He's a good man so he had to try. (Also, if you really thought CBD was gone for good after Gyze ate him? He's laughing at you as we speak.)
> 
> Enough rambles, here it is, literally my biggest and most personal and weirdest kink. I hope you guys realize how much of myself I am baring here.

“You know what, human?”

It’s an absolute joke that Chaos Breaker still calls you that. The only part of you that you know for sure is still ‘human’ — and only because of that time he opened up your skull while you were still conscious — is your brain, and even that is streaked with wires and hooked to so many chips and circuits that you can’t imagine it does much real work of its own. You can’t imagine much at all, for that matter; you don’t ‘have ideas’ anymore so much as simply absorb the ones he sends to you, trickling like poison into one of your many, many neural implants.

“What is it, sir?” you ask, as you trot down the corridor after him. It stopped mattering long ago whether your words are your own or just ones he filtered through your vocal processors for his amusement.

“It’s a big day on Earth tomorrow, apparently,” he goes on, without even looking at you. “Start of a whole new year! Although, your weird little Earth calendar is pretty meaningless out here, you know, what with space, time dilation, blah blah.” He waves his claws vaguely in the air to illustrate. “Oh, never mind, none of that means anything to your stupid little worm brain, does it?”

“No, sir.”

The doors to the medbay slide open, and he leads you by the rows of tables without directing you to lie down. If you’d still been human, you might have been unnerved by the change in routine.

“Of course not. But, you know, apparently there's a thing your people like to say around this time. ‘New year, new me’, or something like that. I thought I'd give it a try.” He laughs, harsh and hollow, like a dying animal. “So, I’ve decided to get to work on a new project!” Clapping his claws together, he gestures to the man-sized vertical tubes lining the far side of the room. Only one of them is occupied, and has been for as long as you’ve been here.

When you’d first arrived — which really must have been months and months ago, if he’s telling the truth about New Years — you’d thought the body hanging unconscious in the tube, suspended in red liquid and connected to a ventilator, was another human. Since then, though, you’ve had time to notice the subtle seams at his joints and the inorganic sheen of his skin, which can only mean one thing; he’s a cyberoid, but not a Star-vader, or else there’d be no need to keep him imprisoned.

“He came to us all the way from Cray itself,” Chaos Breaker explains, as if he’s read your mind — although you know there’s no ‘as if’ about it. “An emissary of peace, if you can believe that. I thought it was a cute gesture.” He laughs again. “Not the peace part, obviously. The fact that they handed me such a nice toy, and I didn’t even have to go pick it up. I’ve been holding onto him for a special occasion.”

As you watch the young man’s white hair shimmer in the unidentified fluid, the slow rise and fall of his naked chest the only indication he’s alive at all, you notice something hanging on the wall nearby. Chaos Breaker must be nudging your attention towards them, or else you would have dismissed them as part of the scenery, just another machine you aren’t permitted to know about; two massive, wheel-like devices, almost as tall as the man himself, wrought from now-familiar black-and-white metal and lit by pulsating red designs at their centers. Flattened spokes radiate out from their edges, giving each the impression of an enormous mechanical flower.

“Those are his,” Chaos goes on, more to himself than anything else. “Some kind of portable shielding system. I’ve been so busy with you, I haven’t had time to pick them apart yet. But!” He claps his claws again, loud enough to make you jump. “That’s exactly why I’m cleaning house! Come on.”

You don’t know what he means exactly, and you don’t have the capacity to wonder about it. He leads you on to the very end of the room, and something in the back of your mind dully notes that you haven’t been down here before. The wall is lined with what look like metal filing cabinets, each fitted with a numbered keypad and some kind of circular access port, and each wide and deep enough to hold—

Before you finish that thought, you realize what they really remind you of; not filing cabinets, but a _morgue_.

“Relax, relax.” Chaos Breaker slaps you on the back, and you stumble forward, your gyro systems struggling to compensate for the sudden movement. “I wouldn’t permanently dispose of a perfectly good toy just like that. We’re just going to put you away for a while.”

Despite his reassurances, he knows full well you hadn’t been scared in the first place. You can’t be. Numbness prickles at the tips of your fingers as he carefully taps out a code on one of the keypads; the drawer opens at your hip height with a slow _hiss_ , and the steel tray within slides out automatically. It looks comfortingly familiar to the lab tables you’re used to, although the usual retractable restraints are missing, and in their place are a series of leather belts bolted to the surface, each a good half-inch thick. Several coiled tubes of various widths rest at the head and foot of the table, their lengths receding back into the drawer where they disappear into sockets in the walls.

Folded at the end of the tray is a black bundle of something that your whirring brain doesn’t recognize at first, and it’s not until your master tells you “get dressed” that you realize it’s _clothing_. You haven’t been allowed clothing since you pledged yourself to him, and that was so long ago now that you barely even understand how to put it on. The fragments of your memory slide away from you as you try to grasp them, as sleek as the material under your fingers as you hold the main piece of the garment up.

The rubber bodysuit shines under the harsh lights of the medbay, but the black is so deep that you can’t see yourself reflected in it. It seems slightly too big for you, which makes it easy to slither into; wiggling your feet down the legs one at a time, you tug it over your hips and slip your hands into the arm holes to help pull the rest over your torso. It feels something like wearing a wetsuit, if wetsuits were smooth and squeaky and made of material as thick as your finger. Your enclosed fingers feel fat and useless, and as you fumble with trying to pull the zipper up your back without assistance, you realize there are two small but conspicuous holes in the rubber: one in your crotch, and a slightly larger one between your asscheeks. Before you can ask your master for help, a claw nudges your fingers out of the way and swipes the zipper up in one clean movement. The neck of the rubber suit comes right up to your collar, and Chaos Breaker unlocks and removes it so he can finish pulling the zipper up all the way.

“There you go,” he says. “Now, stand still.”

Turning away for a second, he taps something else into the drawer’s keypad, and all at once, it’s like the air around you has been sucked away. For one sharp, icy moment you’re convinced the cabin has been depressurized, that something has gone wrong and both of you are about to be blown out into the vacuum of space, but then you realize that it’s just _you_ , or rather, your suit; the air has indeed been sucked out of it, and the rubber that had moments ago been loose and baggy now sticks to your skin like you’ve been lying in the sun for hours. Looking down, you can see the outline of your body muted by its shiny bulk, as if you’ve been dipped in oil.

“Lie down, if you please,” he says politely, even though you’re capable of doing very little else. Pretending that you’re still an autonomous human never seems to get old to him — and the idea of something ‘getting old’ to _you_ is laughable, or would be, if ‘humor’ itself wasn’t in the same category.

You do as he says, of course, reclining on the metal stretcher with your arms at your sides, careful not to disturb any of the tubing. The edges of the belts, barely noticeable through the thickness of your suit, press into your back as you stare into the harsh white light of the ceiling; he doesn’t bother to give you permission to turn your head as he wanders away, and your only clue to his activities is the clanking and clattering of medical equipment across the room.

“Alright, all set!” signals his return, and his footsteps are followed by the squeaking wheels of a trolley. As it trundles into your vision, you catch a glimpse of its cargo: a short tube attached to a glass tank, bigger than you are and filled with some kind of thick, off-white fluid with foam bubbling on its surface. “Lift your hips,” he says, and you do so, propping your weight awkwardly on your feet and elbows.

One of the tubes from the table, maybe an inch or so in diameter, fits neatly into the hole at the back of your suit — and just as neatly into your ass. You’ve been poked and prodded and filled so many times there by now that you barely feel it, a staticky hitch in your breath the only response your body gives as he works the tube several inches into you, then fits some kind of rubber ring on the outside of your suit to hold it in place. A claw taps your hip and you lower them obediently back to the table, where he nudges your knees apart and feeds a catheter into you via the hole in your crotch. It seems pointless; your mostly-cyberoid body doesn’t pass any kind of waste, but it isn’t your role to question him, and so you lie quietly as he seals your suit up, the rubber vacuuming against your skin so tightly it looks like part of you.

Your master nods in satisfaction at his work, and picks up the other piece of clothing that you hadn’t thought — or been allowed? — to look at. The black rubber hood has a conspicuous rounded opening in the front and two smaller holes just above it. There’s no question what any of them are for.

Obediently, you lift your head enough for him to pull the hood over it, and the sterile brightness of the medbay slips away as rubber covers your eyes, suctioning to your skin just as the rest of your suit did. Two small tubes are fed through your nostrils and another, larger one through your mouth; it’s just another thing that’s become mundane and ordinary over the past few months, and you don’t flinch as he eases them into your throat. The one from your mouth goes all the way to your artificial stomach, and you feel its presence not as _pain_ , or as any kind of texture, but rather through an insistent blinking in your sensory receptors. _There is something here_ , they say, and not much else.

Something is sealed over the lower half of your face, and you poke the tube with your flattened tongue to confirm it’s been securely fixed in place. The taste of rubber and plastic is thick in your nose and mouth, but you perceive it almost as an afterthought, only noticeable at all now that your other senses have been effectively shut off. No light penetrates the rubber over your eyelids, and the sounds of the medbay are distant and muted like the roaring of cars on a far-off highway.

The familiar weight of your collar clicks back into place around your throat, sealing the gap between your suit and hood.

 _Oh, this_ is _a good look for you_ , you master purrs, his voice humming through your neural implants as clearly as if he were whispering in your ear.

Then he folds the first belt over your thighs, pinning your legs in place. Buckled as tight as possible, it squeezes into your rubber-coated flesh as it clamps your thighs together, and it crosses your tiny, tired mind that this is the sort of thing that he usually conjures the black rings for. _This_ , whatever it is, is intended to last a long time — long enough that he doesn’t want to expend his energy on it. He tightens the rest of the belts in similarly cruel fashion one after the other; one at your ankles, then your hips, then another just above that which pins your wrists to your sides as well, and two more above _that_ which ensure you can’t move your elbows or upper arms either. Another two go above and below your knees, and then, after a long pause in which you start to wonder if he’s finished, a final one goes over your eyes, securing your head in place and somehow making your blindness feel even more absolute.

You hear — and feel — the rattle of your drawer closing even through the sensory deprivation of your suit. Your body jerks as it slams into place, but none of your restraints or tubes shift even the slightest out of alignment; your master has done his work thoroughly, because of course he has. Au ugly laugh echoes in the back of your skull, and somewhere, in the corners of your ticking mechanical heart, you feel hollow and alone.

And then fluid starts pumping into your metal coffin.

You remember, abruptly, the circular port on the outside next to the keypad; probably just the right size for the tube attached to the tank of liquid Chaos Breaker had dragged over earlier, the one that you’d also all but forgotten about. The enclosed space around you churns violently as it fills, the sloshing and frothing as the fluid rises around you dulled by the rubber stretched across your ears. None of it so much as touches your skin, because there’s no exposed skin for it to touch. The seals around your tubes hold tight.

Even though you can’t feel the dampness of it, the weight as the foamy mixture rises past your lips sends a rare spark of panic racing down your spine and clawing at your insides. You’re trapped — you’ve been ‘trapped’ ever since you set foot on this ship, of course, but now the artificial sacks of your lungs are firing off alarm bells as fluid covers your face and you can’t even raise your head or lift a finger to struggle against your restraints. Steam wheezes through your ball joints as you try, but your bonds are so thick and tight, and the fluid is so heavy that even your cyberoid body is utterly helpless. The drawer fills, and fills, and fluid bubbles and ripples against your rubber shell, and all you can do is lie there, heart stuttering, warning signals still flashing in your lungs even as air hisses through the tubes in your nose.

The ticking of your heart is so loud in your rubbery tomb that you take several seconds to notice when the fluid stops. Your drawer must be full; the mystery liquid bears down on your intubated body from head to toe, thick and viscous enough that even nervous shivering is exhausting. It almost seems to be getting _heavier_ with each passing moment, even though you can’t feel it being pumped in anymore, almost as if it too is tightening around you, putting even more pressure on the parts of you not already squeezed tight by the row of belts. Almost as if—

 _Just a little something I developed for long-term storage solutions to keep my toys from getting jostled around_ , Chaos Breaker supplies, a low buzz reverberating through your skull. _The fluid foams up when agitated — such as when pumped at high pressure into a small container — and then sets hard as rock as soon as it settles! Clever, isn’t it? Now you can’t move at all! Totally water soluble, too, so it’s easy to unpack my things when I want to play with them again._

It’s like being buried in a block of concrete. No matter how hard you try, you can’t wiggle your fingers anymore, can’t expand your lungs to their fullest, can’t even _feel_ through the rubber the weight that’s hanging over your head and threatening to crush you. You want to cry — but even if you could, your suit is sealed so tight to your skin there’s nowhere for the tears to _go_.

 _I’ve got a lot planned for my little emissary friend_ , he continues, and you think, faintly — though your overclocked brain could definitely be imagining it — that you can hear the thud of his huge footsteps as he walks away. _So I probably won’t be back for you for a while._

 _Please_ , you want to whimper. You don’t know what to do, and at the same time, there’s nothing you _can_ do. _Don’t leave me._

You’re nothing without him. A toy without an owner. It hadn’t hit you until now — because, you realize, he hadn’t _let_ it. Your master, the only thing you have to live for, is leaving you behind, going off to play with someone new and fresh and shiny. You’d always know it would happen, but you’d thought it would be when you broke down, when you weren’t useful anymore, not— not like _this_.

You were a good toy, weren’t you?

Laughter crackles through your skull, and you can picture the already-bitter image of Chaos Breaker throwing his head back and baring his gleaming teeth as he roars with vicious glee.

 _Don’t despair_ too _much just yet. I’ll come back for you! Let’s say… in another Earth year?_

Despite everything, the words light a tiny glimmering spark in your chest.

_If I remember, of course. Happy new year, human~_

His laughter fades into the distance, and you're left entirely alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I DID IT BABY I FINISHED THE KINKTOBER IT ONLY TOOK ME THREE MONTHS FINALLY I CAN DIE
> 
> Where are we going from here?? Well, I'd like to get back to my OC stuff for a while, but I have a couple more kink oneshots I want to get out (I would like to do a... more traditional and realistic encasement/mummification scene, probably with Shiralua), and also I'd like to finally seriously tackle my Luard longfic that I've talked about for years. But will Cosmo Wreath have any adventures with CBD???? The answer is a resounding Maybe. In all honesty I am a little bit worn out in terms of writing kinks at the moment.
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath


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